


Gift Horse

by athousandvictories



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, First Kiss, Gift Giving, M/M, POV Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Pining Arthur, Use Your Words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 07:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandvictories/pseuds/athousandvictories
Summary: Merlin simply doesn't know better.He doesn't know he's only meant to place Arthur's shirts over his head, not fondly adjust collars and straighten seams. He doesn't know how much he'd be able to delegate to grooms and seamstresses and laundresses and kitchen girls if only he tried, instead of doing every possible task himself. And he doesn't know that it is utterly unprecedented for a manservant to own a horse.Arthur isn't great at expressing himself, Merlin is great at horses.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 104
Kudos: 1474





	Gift Horse

**Author's Note:**

>   
  
Art by [kritastrophe](https://kritastrophe.tumblr.com/)  

> 
> * * *

Merlin simply doesn't know better.

He doesn't know he's only meant to place Arthur's shirts over his head, not fondly adjust collars and straighten seams. He doesn't know how much he'd be able to delegate to grooms and seamstresses and laundresses and kitchen girls if only he tried, instead of doing every possible task himself. And he doesn't know that it is utterly unprecedented for a manservant to own a horse.

Well, perhaps he does suspect something is off, but he takes the mare's reins from Arthur after only a few sideways glances.

Arthur hadn't told Merlin it was a birthday gift, of course, or even a gift. He'd just heard it was about to be Merlin's birthday, when he was listening to—no, overhearing—Gwen and Morgana, and decided Merlin needed a horse. For reasons of practicality. And anyway, he'd given Merlin the horse three days before his actual birthday, which had to put him above suspicion.

Besides, Arthur goes out hunting things (for both pleasure and necessity) far more often than any other nobleman, so of course it makes sense for Arthur's servant to have his own horse. Taking whichever the head groom can spare is unpredictable, and Merlin is enough of a variable as is. Arthur has a whole string of horses anyway-a massive stallion for fighting on horseback, a pack horse for lugging tents and the other trappings of war, several palfreys for travel.

The one he's given Merlin is certainly as fine as any of them, a pretty filly that a Lord had gifted him in the year previous. This spontaneous generosity was almost certainly meant to begin negotiations for the hand of his daughter, but she'd caught Sir Tor's eye instead, so Arthur didn't need to feel guilty about keeping it—her? The horse.

The horse likes Merlin already, apparently. She's nosing into his hand like she thinks he's got a fistful of oats.

"I'm afraid I'm not much of a rider, lass," Merlin coos, "but I'll take care of you."

Arthur knew she was good tempered, but it's still a little odd. Just like Merlin, to tame a thousand-pound beast meant mostly to facilitate violence, without even trying. He tempers Arthur's worst tendencies the same way—just by existing.

It's quite inconvenient really. Arthur never _used_ to lie awake in bed pondering words spoken in haste and actions thoughtlessly performed, picturing Merlin's disappointed face.

It's a few weeks before Arthur realizes the horse was a terrible not-birthday-gift. Firstly, because the _contrast_ is frustrating. Merlin lacks in many vital skills and is resolute never to improve at them (swordplay comes to mind). But at horsemanship he is apparently determined to succeed. It's impossible to understand.

Although, Arthur supposes, perhaps it's simply that Merlin has never in his life possessed anything so valuable, and is trying to make the most of it. He follows that train of thought for a while, until examining his privilege gets too uncomfortable and he decides Merlin's just like every other girl who's always dreamed of having a pony.

Another problem is that once Arthur heard from the head groom that Merlin was riding every morning, he'd gotten curious and watched it. He'd only meant to do it the one time—it's cold on the battlements before sunrise—but it becomes a habit. One likes to see one's gifts appreciated, he supposes.

At first Merlin had made mistakes, losing his balance on lead changes and nearly falling off when the filly shied at the disturbing flutter of a bird or banner. But he was always smiling (Arthur had imagined, anyway—he was too far away to see) and the horse would flicker her ears back amiably, attentive to his careful hands and soft voice. In only a few weeks, he'd graduated from the pens and corrals and begun riding out into the woods on errands for Gaius.

Arthur misses watching him.

So there it is. A terrible gift idea.

Merlin finds himself suddenly welcome on any patrol Arthur goes out with (to his delight) as well as all hunting trips (to his dismay). If Arthur likes to watch Merlin expertly making the horse sidestep between stones, it's only because it's refreshing to see. The knights could learn a thing or two. Gwaine particularly— his mare, Satan, is constantly biting other horses and causing chaos.

Arthur doesn't even know if Merlin's horse has a name. He's sure Merlin's renamed it after a type of flower or an Old Goddess or some other girlish nonsense. What's more, Merlin's so protective of the damn horse that he doesn't trust the stable boys to do anything. When the others have gone to the taverns to drink the soreness out of their legs, Merlin stays behind in the stables.

Eventually, Arthur stays too (only because everything's easier if his horses actually like him). He hears Merlin whispering at his horse that she's so good, that he prefers her to any of the others, that he is proud of her for not shying at the pheasant in the hedge, for not killing Satan when Satan deserved it.

The horse's name is Buttercup, apparently. Ridiculous.

Stupid name aside, Buttercup proves her mettle soon enough. There's a Boar Situation at the Beltane hunt, when one of the horses is gored, and it doesn't escape Arthur's notice that Merlin keeps his horse in hand through the whole frightful episode. He has a lot less scratches than the rest of them, when it's all over.

There _is_ a sprig of leaves in his hair, but Arthur is sure not to mention it. Merlin is delectably furious to discover it late in the evening, after the entire boar has been eaten. Merlin contains his rage long enough to assign himself Lecturer to the Prince and delivers a passionate monologue about how hunting is inhumane and a waste of quality horseflesh.

Arthur calls him a girl, which is a small comfort when he's lying awake, _again,_ wondering if Sir Bedevere was very fond of the horse he'd had to put down (it was a bloody affair, with only a hunting knife). Merlin, Merlin, Merlin, Merlin. A pain in the arse, and clearly a natural at horsemanship.

Arthur feels something about that—not jealousy, which would be ridiculous, but guilt. For all his mocking, he knows Merlin is brilliant, really brilliant, and this is just more evidence that he's had no chance to reach his potential. Good horsemen are brave, observant, and patient - virtues that while wasted on no one, are sorely needed in the high court. Merlin is blunt, graceless, disrespectful, stubborn, and a moron, but most of the knights are too, and none of them quite measure up to him in Arthur's esteem.

It takes him four days to ask. The weather's gone back to being cool, and Merlin had to bring an extra brace of firewood up to his room after dark. Arthur's sitting cross-legged at the end of his bed, fervently wishing the fire was closer to his feet. He can't get the words out till Merlin's nearly out the door.

"Merlin." Merlin looks back over his shoulder, brows raised. When Arthur doesn't continue, he takes a few steps back into the room, closer to the fire. Arthur presses a thumb to his lower lip, distracted by the way the glow highlights the planes of Merlin's face.

"If you could have" Arthur opens his hand in a blooming motion in front of his face "anything. A position, a title, land. Wh-"

"I like where I am," Merlin interrupts, before he can finish. "I serve you well here." It's what Arthur expected.

"And yet despite this claim, my blue cloak has been torn on the hem for three weeks now."

Merlin snorts. It's graceful of him not to mention that if Arthur truly thought him incompetent, he wouldn't be offering anything. Instead, he just fixes his gaze on Arthur, blue eyes reflecting the firelight. Arthur gazes back until it's too much, until things start to feel dangerously _possible_ and he looks down into his lap. Merlin is gone without a word.

Arthur can't take no for an answer, of course. He gives Merlin another horse, a dapple-grey that is as temperamental as it is lovely. He tells Merlin that training it is part of his duties, a stroke of genius that forces Merlin to delegate more of his midday tasks. He's always back for the evening meal with wind-flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Of course, if he's going to be out riding in the wind every day, Merlin needs better, warmer clothes. Arthur orders them himself, makes sure the fabrics are not so fine as to cause talk, but are high in quality, well woven wool and soft deerskin.

It's well that he does, too, because Merlin becomes rather a fixture at the stables. Arthur catches glances of him around the training grounds, exercising horses that aren't either of his. He's hardly surprised when the head groom asks for an audience with him right after he's told Merlin he's needed in the castle all day. The problem with competence is that there's not enough of it to go around. 

"I want Merlin today." Eldred is one of the only castle staff who dares to speak so freely with Arthur. He's a gruff, hardy man with white hair, and can probably remember leading Arthur around in circles on a stout pony when he was six years old. Arthur's eclipsed the grizzled knights who trained him, but he suspects he's never surpassed Eldred in horsemanship.

"I require his services at the council meeting," Arthur responds, as regally as he can. Of course, that doesn't sound as important as it is. While technically, Merlin is there to attend Arthur and not the meeting, Arthur likes to pull him aside partway through when everyone's stretching their legs. Merlin's very perceptive of the constant scheming and mocks Uther's advisers with a gratifying bluntness. It keeps Arthur sane, frankly.

Also, Arthur likes to offer Merlin's services to visiting nobility - it's more like deploying him, really. While Merlin might grumble about heavy luggage and the number of stairs to the guest wing, he can't help but observe things he isn't meant to notice, much less keep those things to himself. His nosiness saves Arthur's life with disturbing frequency.

"Let me rephrase, my liege. I _need_ Merlin. He's better at handling the studs than Alf or Cuthbert and they're a headache on the best of days, nevermind when there's mares in heat across the aisle. Lord Orvyn is here for only two days more with his mares, and he's paying a handsome fee. He'll get his foals next spring, but I'd rather not trade a stable boy's skull for it."

"Very well," Arthur says, which he's learned from Uther is the closest a royal may get to admitting he's wrong. "I'll send him down after noon meal."

Arthur goes down to the stables to check on things once the meeting is done. It's already dusk, the last streaks of sunset smeared low on the horizon. He sees Merlin in one of the stalls, rubbing down Buttercup, who's obviously been taken for a good run. Merlin's sweaty too - he's wearing a thin shirt (a nice charcoal colored one Arthur had given him) and there's a damp patch down his spine. Arthur lets himself admire the flex of Merlin's back muscles for a moment before going into the stall. The dapple-grey tries to nip Arthur from the stall beside, and he shoves its nose away with his fist.

"I think you like the horses better than people, sometimes, Merlin." It's meant to be a jibe, but it comes out sounding serious.

"I do like them better than most people." Merlin sets his brush down to focus on Arthur, grins wide, "So what did Lord Edric have to say today about the corn tax?"

Arthur stretches a hand across his eyes to rub his temples and hears Merlin laugh. Arthur's afternoon had been more wretched than he'd ever admit.

Maybe Merlin knows what he's thinking (it seems unnervingly like that, these days), because when Arthur takes his hand away from his face, Merlin's looking back with a small, secretive smile.

He takes the headstall off the grey horse, and Arthur follows him to the room where all the tack hangs. Cinches jangle as Merlin pushes past saddles. He stretches a little to hang up the halter and Arthur's eyes are drawn unavoidably to the ribbon of exposed skin where his shirt lifts off his waist.

He doesn't look away soon enough, because Merlin catches him gawping. He gives Arthur a dark, knowing look.

"Sire?" It's never really a title when Merlin says it - effortlessly tossing Arthur's station aside is a peculiar specialty of his.

"It's a nice shirt", Arthur says. "I've good taste."

"Have you?" Merlin says, too meaningfully not to be insinuating something.

"And just what do you mean by that?"

"Well I've heard some choice bits of information about Lady El-"

"All of them lies." Arthur says (a bit too loudly, because a horse snorts, startled).

"One can't be sure!" Merlin raises his brows, "she's certainly got quite the pair of... territories."

"Merlin!" Arthur makes to cuff him across the shoulder and Merlin ducks away before he can make contact.

"So you're fully immune to her gravity defying bosom?"

"Yes- no- you're an idiot, Merlin. Do you really think I should be marrying myself off already?"

"No." Merlin says, fast. It's gratifying to Arthur but he tries not to think about why, tries to clear his head. He can't stop looking at Merlin's body. His hair is damp and curling at the edges of his face. A bead of sweat rolls down into the hollow of his neck, where his collarbones jut out from alabaster skin.

Part of him wants to do something differently this time, to say something tender. But he's never had any practice at all, saying tender things and meaning them. They both stand there a little while.

"Why did you give me the horse, Sire?" Merlin whispers. Arthur has to think, because he won't- can't- answer that truthfully.

"You're a good man, and it was in my power. I've seen too much ill fortune come to good men and good to ill."

It's a cowardly answer. It doesn't remotely describe what's between them, certainly doesn't explain why Arthur's heart is pounding in his ears.

Merlin gives a bitter little laugh.

"Right. Well, thank you, Arthur." He walks away, back down the aisle, and it's like a thousand other moments that have passed between them, gently brushed aside and carefully forgotten. Arthur's not sure he can forget this one quickly enough, so when Merlin comes in to his room that night, he pretends he's already asleep.

The next day, he goes to Gwen's house before morning drill. She's a smith's daughter, not a saddlemaker's, but she knows who the best of them are and where to find them. He leaves her with a note, crumpled from being crushed in his palm, and a sincere thanks.

She comes up to his rooms in the evening with a bridle. It's made of a dark reddish leather, and there are flowers tooled into the browband. Arthur hangs it on a chair, admiring the glint of the buckles and rings. He spends a tense hour trying to be useful, to read ledgers and accounts, but he forgets the numbers as soon as he reads them. Not long after the room grows dim enough for him to light a candle, he hears someone open the door. It's Merlin, almost certainly, but Arthur is suddenly too busy with important trade documents to look up.

"What's this?"

"What's what?" Arthur pretends not to see Merlin's hand skimming over the bridle. "Oh, that. It's for you." Arthur looks back down. There's a jingling sound (Merlin must have picked it up) and Arthur imagines him examining the neat stitching, the running long, pale fingers over the designs.

"Arthur," he says, and the voice sounds closer. "Are these... buttercups?" Merlin's standing in front of the desk, bridle clasped in front of him with the reins looped so they won't touch the floor. He's smiling, and he's so beautiful that Arthur can't stand it.

"It's a stupid name," Arthur states. For once, Merlin (may his Goddess bless him) is too incandescent to care that this is the wrong thing to say. He grips the nape of Arthur's neck, bends over the desk to press his mouth to Arthur's cheek, right at the corner of his mouth. Arthur grabs a handful of Merlin's jacket and slants their mouths together.

There's a jingle as Merlin drops the bridle to the floor, and a rustle of papers as Arthur drags him forward onto the desk. Merlin makes a noise into his mouth when his knee knocks over the inkwell, but it doesn't matter. Arthur's never been any good with words anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, everyone. I guess I've outed myself as That Horse Girl, but in my mind Merlin has some kind of connection to plants and animals as a result of his magical abilities so the idea was stuck in my head.
> 
> Leave a comment and let me know your favourite (or least favourite) details!


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